


The Lion and his Maiden Fair

by ddagent



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, Tenderness, Wound Tending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Jaime and Brienne leave Harrenhal and head south. Set directly after 3.07.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 42
Kudos: 260





	The Lion and his Maiden Fair

**Author's Note:**

> So. Months ago I received this prompt from lariskapargitay: "I LOVE your Braime oneshots! Any chance you could write their first night back together after he saves her from the bear pit?" Today, I asked agirlnamedkeith/sameboots to choose my prompt and she picked this one. It rather got away from me. Still, I hope you enjoy!

It had been like something out of a song. A maiden in danger, saved by a handsome, golden knight. Only, Brienne was too ugly to be thought of as one of the maidens from the old stories. Ser Jaime, however, continued to surprise her. 

“She rides with me,” he spat as they left the ruins of Harrenhal. “Let’s get out of this Godsforsaken place, and quickly.” 

The coral gown she had been forced into was stained and torn, and was now ripped at the sides to allow her to straddle Ser Jaime’s horse. She offered her hand to help him mount the steed, and he took it without question or snide remark. He untied the sling keeping his arm in place and rested it against her stomach; anchoring them both. His left hand held the reigns. Hers were too unsteady to do so: fear of death, the thrill of the fight, had left her nerves singing. 

As Steelshanks and his men led their procession south to King’s Landing, she felt Ser Jaime’s lips brush the shell of her ear. “My lady, may our journey continue without further incident.”

She spluttered in a pale attempt at laughter; a soft rush of air beside her ear told her that Ser Jaime was doing the same. 

They rode for hours, or perhaps minutes: drizzle made the journey uncomfortable; the grey sky made it impossible to tell how much time had passed. Eventually, the sun fell beyond the hills and their group made camp. Bolton’s men made a fire; one skinned a rabbit. Brienne stood by their mare, unsure what to do with herself without armour or sword. Ser Jaime’s hand tugging at hers was unexpected, and she flinched. 

“It’s just me. There’s a stream just by that copse of trees. I thought we could get a drink.” 

She nodded. “Let me get the waterskin.”

“No need. I’ve got everything we require.” 

A crease formed in her brow as Brienne noted the bundle Ser Jaime held. Still, of all the men in her current company, she trusted him most of all. In fact, of all the men in her larger acquaintance, she had somehow grown to trust him more than most. She willingly followed him out of sight to the small stream. He waded into the water to fill the waterskin, before gesturing to a large rock on the bank. 

“Sit, Brienne. I want to clean those wounds.”

“Qyburn can—”

“—_no. _It’s bad enough that butcher attends to me. I won’t have him touching you.” He dropped the bundle to the grass beside her knee, laying one of the rags across his thigh and dousing it with water. “I may not be a Maester, but I am capable of cleaning and...well, _used _to be capable of stitching a wound.” 

“The only time my stitches were ever straight was when they were on me.”

Ser Jaime barked out a laugh. “That does not surprise me, my Lady. Feel free to clutch my arm, if you can bear it.” 

The damp material touched the jagged claw marks across her shoulder and throat. Brienne, indeed, reached for his arm. It was a firm counterpoint to the pain that rolled through her. But Ser Jaime was gentle; gentler than Brienne would have ever thought from a man with his reputation, however unfounded it was. He was diligent in cleaning her wounds; in applying the salve that Qyburn had given for Ser Jaime’s own. She drew in a ragged breath as his calloused fingertips brushed her bare skin.

“Sorry,” he whispered, withdrawing his touch. “But I’m finished. I’ll check them again tomorrow.”

Surprised by his tender concern, Brienne asked the question that had formed on her lips since she had heard the thump of Ser Jaime landing behind her in the pit. “Why?”

He frowned. “I thought that was obvious. You won’t be able to protect the Stark girls if your wounds get infected and you _die_.”

“No. Why did you come back for me?” 

Ser Jaime bowed his head, seemingly refusing to meet her eye. She could not imagine an unfavourable, _dishonourable _answer that would lead any man to jump, unarmed and onehanded, into a bear pit to save a woman he could barely stand. That Ser Jaime had returned because it was the right thing, the _honourable _thing, seemed the only reason that made any sense. 

He finally lifted his head. Ser Jaime’s eyes were sharp, cutting, yet they held no malice. “I couldn’t stand the thought of what they would do to you. The thought of you not being in the world...” He cleared his throat. “You’re far too honourable for your own good; hopefully, another quest will knock that out of you. But that will be after we part ways and I can wash my hands of you.”

Brienne resisted the urge to smile, fearing that would only draw more of Ser Jaime’s false ire. Instead, she simply said, “_Thank you.” _

Ser Jaime rose to his feet. “Don’t thank me just yet. I only have one bedroll, so you’ll have to share with me. It won’t be easy, considering there’s so much of you, but we’ll make it work.” 

It would not be the first time Brienne had slept on the ground. They had, after all, spent some nights finding little sleep whilst lashed to a tree. “Ser Jaime, I can—”

“—you’ll sleep beside me, alright? Why do you have to be so stubborn?” He huffed. “Grab some more water, will you? Those trees have apples and you have two hands so you can pick some. You’re the only person I trust to feed me.” 

Brienne did not argue; she could see his eyes growing hazy from the pain. So she refilled the waterskin and retrieved a handful of apples, although it was a slow process as the movement of her left arm aggravated the wounds on her neck. Eventually, they had food and water and they returned to camp. Bolton’s men were passing around a wineskin; Qyburn watching them as a young boy would watch ants in the courtyard. Brienne was content when Ser Jaime laid out their bedroll some distance away. He laid the side closest to the Bolton camp. She took the space beside him. 

It felt strange to lie so close to someone. To feel his hair brush her face; his breath on her cheek as he turned to stare at her. “I’ll keep watch; let you get some sleep.” 

“I can take the first watch.” 

“I _insist.” _

But his eyes were already drawing shut. They suddenly snapped open; Ser Jaime’s breath coming out in shuddering pants. The pain was too great. He needed to rest. Brienne reached out, running her fingers through his hair like her father had done to her as a child when she’d had trouble sleeping. Her touch seemed to soothe him. His shoulders fell; his head resting in the crook of her neck. Ser Jaime would probably remember little of this in the morning. Brienne continued to stroke his golden mane until his chest moved in time with her own. 

Pain took her in the early hours. When she woke, Ser Jaime was watching her. He blinked, and quickly turned his gaze upon the sky. He felt it too. Something had changed between them. When they finally reached King’s Landing, there would be no easy goodbye. That Brienne had to say goodbye at all hurt more than any wound she had ever possessed.


End file.
